


Has a Start and Finish Line

by halloweenpants



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: M/M, idk why its so jumbly, its explicit bc this will eventually be porn but rn im just posting the first Bit as motivation, please give me feedback, this is not written well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8353831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloweenpants/pseuds/halloweenpants
Summary: I don't have an excuse. I do, however, have a crush on William T. Riker and an appreciation for later-season Wesley Crusher's status as the irresponsibly chosen posterboy of haze. Also this is not very well written. I am not good at writing about Star Trek and I don't know why. Please help.The chapter up currently is not porn but the second one will beThis wasn't even supposed to have a prelude what happen e d





	

_ The quintessential american image isn’t cherry cola or apple pie, it’s that animated image of the twenty year old with the body of a sixteen year old getting her shaved cunt fucked to high hell, glasses almost flying off her nose, awkward smoulder for the camera, straightened brown hair for perfection in the male gaze... _

 

Wesley continues writing on old Earth history until he blinks and sees how much of his phrasing can’t be on a PADD that’s supposed to be turned in. He sighs, saves it to finish for fun, and pulls up a halfway-finished piece on the disparities between space exploration and Earth ocean exploration instead. The computer blinks a time neither wrong nor right (but still a terrible hour) and Wesley raspberries his way through frustration before settling down to bang something out.

  
  


“Wesley.”

No response.

“Wesley!”

Mumbling and grumbling emanates from a sparkling blanket.

“I’m up, I’m up, I’m up.”

The computer blinks a time five minutes past right and Wesley blinks until he’s sat at his desk in some remote science division wing in some remote corner of the Enterprise, acceptable paper sent in and real work halfway done. 

 

+++++++++

 

A problem arrives: Wesley isn’t doing his real work. He’s writing a for-fun prose poetry piece on old Earth sexuality and hoping that his intermittent uncalled for anger and arousal don’t show on his face or in his pants. Sure, metaphasic rings and improved warp cores are  _ helpful _ and  _ revolutionary _ , but before he’d closed up shop the night before Wesley had been clacking his way into the underlying international message behind mainstream hardcore adult media, and a seventeen year old genius could only take so much, nevermind that Wesley had never done much besides kiss a couple of friends here and there, and on the excuses go until he gets to a problem and tosses the PADD aside. Real work, Wesley thinks, lips parted, eyes glazed. Real work. His hands dance over an interface and he glides through algorithm after result but when his eyebrows knit together, Wesley loses all concentration, focusing back on the problem his non-acceptable history piece presents. 

 

It’s not that he’s embarrassed about the subject matter. Wesley would be collared in a heartbeat, on his knees and at the beck and call of any Sir or Ma’am or Doctor in a moment, daycollar under his uniform and shackled safely to a bed, it’s just that he hasn’t, ever, and he doesn’t know how to ask for it, and it’s shameful even though he knows it’s not something to be ashamed about. It’s a problem he can’t fix, just like this problem with the dimensional flux that he sees on the screen in front of him, and he’s stuck, hand on the back of his neck and posture lackluster in energetic, temporary defeat.

 

_ Swish, swish _ , says the door that breaks Wesley’s reverie. A nearly inaudible  _ swish, swish _ is startled from his uniform, pulled gray against a newly ramrod straight back at attention to whoever’s at the door because even if you’re not in Starfleet, that’s who you’re learning from, and if you were supposed to be working alone today then it’s probably Starfleet personnel walking through the door.  _ Swish, swish _ go Wesleys eyelashes, blinking away the frustration to see who’s at the door.

 

“Sorry to interrupt your dark corner, Wes,” says a twinkling smile from the clouds.

“That’s all right, Sir,” his mind pulled from something black-leather and cool metal, Wesley sees the size difference, the rank difference, the height and weight and age differences all reason out to  _ something promising _ before he realizes he’s addressing Commander Riker, and Wesley mentally breathes a thank you to automatic conditioned responses.

“You mind if I look through these, Wesley? ‘ Captain wants senior staff to brush up on their basic search training once in awhile.”

“No…-go ahead;” Wesley’s neck and arms and mannerisms are locked stiffly and inescapably by the realization that Riker might be a good idea.

 

On some level, Wesley knows that this isn’t a good road to travel down. He knows that the Commander is probably somewhere in his thirties, is probably straight, is probably a million things, but he’s so relaxed around Wesley and even though Wesley knows that Riker’s like that around just about everybody it still spells something  _ good _ , and, PADD in hand, Wesley makes a very brash enquiry and a very brazen, young, stupid decision.

 

“Commander?” Wesley is sitting more casually than he should be and has absolutely no idea where his comfort came back from, but he doesn’t rightly know where the stiffness came from, either, so he does his best to let it go. When Will doesn’t immediately turn, Wesley takes that moment to take in what he’s trying for. When Will does turn, his curious expression is met by an innocence that’s neither here nor there, a questionable innocence that shouldn’t quite be there.

 

“I, uh, had a history report due this morning and I finished the  _ official _ one, but I’m thinking about turning this piece in, too, for extra credit, and I think you might like to look over it first?”

“Wesley, I’m, well, I’m no expert, but sure…”

 

Wesley leans luxurious over the back of his chair and the rows upon stacks of samples to hand the PADD to the Commander. His heart races as Riker reads the title, the first couple of lines, the loosely-defined-as-a thesis, his heart and his head plunging in every direction as Riker raises his eyebrows and looks up at Wesley with not quite a smile.

 

“There’s a part I got stuck on, since it’s not something you can look at entirely from a scholastic perspective, and I thought you might have um, insight, and I…” Wesley trails off when Riker leans over his station, not exactly stony faced, definitely contemplative, definitely careful.

 

“Wes,” a moment too long to count passes and Wesley’s arms involuntarily twitch, reflexive shame building. Somewhere he knows his face is red and white at the same time.

 

“I’ll look it over.”  _ Swish, swish _ says the door again and  _ thump, thump _ go Riker’s feet and Wesley’s heart until Wesley sees different carpeting and realizes that he’s back in his quarters.

  
His roommate on Earth is halfway through writing an excuse back to the Academy when Wesley passes out in front of the camera.


End file.
